


The Five Times Jamie Moriarty Ruined My Life (And The One Time She Didn’t… Or Whatever)

by LynnLarsh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Gore, Moriarty Is A Dick, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4065592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm totally taking the fucking piss.  She's never not ruined my life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fashion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> ((Thanks as always to kali_asleep for allowing me to bombard her with ideas and half written fics and crazy MorMor rants. You're my hero and my motivation.))

I've never been big on fashion, never really saw much need. In the world of high stakes assassinations and global take-overs, all you really need is a sturdy pair of boots and clothes that allow for mobility and finesse.

Jamie takes no little amount of pleasure in scolding me relentlessly about this (not that I give two shits) and occasionally threatening me over it (maybe I might give a shit or two there). But she's never acted on it, never followed through on her warnings of manicures in my sleep or switching out all of my blacks and fatigues for hot pink "camies" (whatever the fuck those are) and jeggings. God forbid.

It's all my fault really, when I think about it. I fell into a false sense of security.

Though it started out innocently enough, for lack of a more Jamie-Appropriate term, it escalated pretty quickly (as most things with her are want to do). I'd wake up with a few new dresses in my wardrobe or a thing of lipstick on my bedside table (yeah fucking right), but never anything major. Nothing I couldn't ignore. Which, of course, is when she pulled out the fucking sheers.

It took me about two point five seconds to notice; even half asleep, a sniper is only as good as her ability to be aware of her own surroundings. That and, while my hair has never been the longest (you try keeping that shit out of your face while positioned on a rooftop with your eyes behind a fucking scope), losing a good six inches takes a decent amount of weight with it.

Now, the sudden lobbing off of a good chunk of my hair was startling (aggravating) but ignorable; the cut itself was surprisingly decent considering. What couldn't be ignored, however, were as follows:

1\. She had to have fucking drugged me for as long as that cut must have taken (light sleeper, army reflexes, general dislike of late night scissors near my face).

And 2. My hair was now a pretty alarming shade of purple.

"Son of a bitch..." I remember hissing through my teeth the moment I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. I was halfway down the stairs before I'd even decided how to proceed with the situation beyond, "Punch Jamie square across the fucking jaw," which wouldn't have benefitted anyone, really. Might have made me feel better though.

"Morning, darling!" Jamie cooed from her spot on the couch, stretched luxuriously across the cushions. She seemed oblivious, her usual teasing (obnoxious) self; like I haven't grown used to that shit by now. It's practically her tell.

"The fuck is this?" I growled, getting into her line of sight and all bit shoving my head into her face. She appeared completely unfazed.

"The box called it Combat Baby," she shrugged, which looked surprisingly not-awkward considering how she was laying down. "It reminded me of you."

"That's nice. But what the fuck is it doing on my head?"

The look Jamie gave me is regrettably one I'm not unfamiliar with. Basically a combination of, "How many ways can you disappoint me?" and, "Are you really that stupid?"

All she actually said, however, was, "Last I checked, that's where hair dye goes, Tigerlily."

Ha fucking ha.

"I was perfectly fine with the blonde, Boss," I said, pinching at the bridge of my nose, because sometimes it's just not worth it to fight her, and right then I could tell it would do me no good.

As expected, she just shrugged again. "I never said you weren't. But this color goes better with the earrings I got you."

Which didn't make any sense at all, because, "I don't even have my ears pierced, Boss..."

And if the grin she gave me then hadn't been warning enough, her cheeky ass, "Are you sure?" was a all the red flag I fucking needed.

I suppose I should consider myself lucky. There are so many worse places she could have pierced.

Though, since then, I've had to become accustom to checking all my drinks for drugs. Just in case.


	2. Retail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still ruining my fucking life.

"This is fucking ridiculous," I mumbled, because it really, really fucking was. I straightened my (god forsaken, mother fucking, polka-dotted) bow tie for the umpteenth time and then proceeded to glare at Jamie's reflection. As usual, she just continued to smile at me from behind my shoulder, tying my apron a bit too tightly and brushing nonexistent lint from my shoulders.

"Oh undoubtedly," she said, completely nonchalant. "But also quite necessary."

"How the fuck is working retail ever necessary?"

Jamie actually fucking "tut-tut"ed, turning me around to face her directly. "Completely ignoring your lack of knowledge in regards to economic stability," she smiled. "The devil is in the details, Tigerlily. And you are my most important detail. Now," she took a step back, admiring her work. It was strangely unnerving, but she didn't seem to care. Especially when she clapped once and added, "Give us a smile! I expect nothing but the best customer service from here on out."

I felt my eye twitch, which she must have noticed, judging by her smirk. Still, for good measure, I mumbled a tight, "I fucking hate you." Not that it got me more than a wink in return.

"I know you do, darling. Now off you pop."

\---

"And how much extra would it cost for you to set up the security package for me?"

_I could fucking kill you in half the time it would take for your laptop to reboot._

"Installation is free."

"And what's the difference between this package and the one you showed me earlier?"

_Oh god kill me._

A smile can only be faked for so long before your cheeks start to twitch, your jaw starts to tense, grow painful. Just like the whole fucking experience itself.

Retail.

It's amazing more people haven't gone postal. The amount of stupidity, the tedium, the fucking strength of will necessary to fake the level of "customer service" it takes to avoid backlash... Scratch that. It's amazing I didn't go postal at least once. Though I thought about it. A lot. Right then, for example.

"This package has security included," I tried my best not to growl at her through my teeth. Though I probably gesticulated at the box with a bit more vigor than was strictly necessary. In my defense, she'd asked that same question three times already so far. I pointed to the other box. "And this one doesn't."

"Okay," she hummed, even tapped her chin like a fucking cliché. Then she pointed to the same box. "And is it possible to get the security package with this one anyway?"

Make that four times.

"You'll have to pay extra."

_With your fucking head. Preferably splattered against the wall._

"Right, okay." She picked up one box, made to put it in her cart, then put it back on the table. "And what about-"

"Excuse me for a moment," I nearly screamed, pushing myself up from behind the table and half running, half stomping towards the break room. There wasn't much more I could take, and I was pretty sure strangling a customer with my bare hands would pretty sufficiently blow my cover.

Two weeks. I'd been at it for two weeks with no sign of Jamie, no clue as to what my involvement actually benefitted, and fuck. If one more person asked me what the difference between megabytes and gigabytes was, I was gonna take a laptop to someone's face.

“Sam?” The voice (nasally, weaseling, distinctly managerial) called out from the other side of the break room door. “Samantha, you’re lunch isn’t scheduled for another two hours.” I forced myself to bite back the sarcastic retort already crawling up my throat and grabbed the pack of fags from my locker instead. I made sure to push through the door with enough force to throw the man on the other side of it back a few steps. “You can’t keep leaving the floor unattended, Sam,” he shook his head at me as I passed. “That’s why we have schedules. So that there’s always-”

I admit it. I rounded on him, stared him down with the exact same break of character I’d been trying to avoid (much less retail, a lot more trigger-happy assassin). His face went pale, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose in a way that was damn near comical.

“I’m taking a smoke break,” I said. Non-negotiable. The man just nodded, left me to it, but even the momentary return of my control (dignity) wasn’t enough to numb the pain. 

The moment I was outside, I killed pretty much half a cigarette in a single drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs, letting the nicotine soothe as much of my frayed nerves as it could. Which, considering how many years I’d been smoking, wasn’t much.

I could have left right then, but it might have jeopardized the mission (whatever the fuck that was). So I was stuck taking momentary reprieves (lunches for thirty, smoke breaks for ten, though _never more than two a day_ for god sake) and feigning enthusiasm (or indifference at least) until Jamie came and- 

“Shouldn’t you be convincing some poor sap to buy a meaningless insurance package or something?” Jamie damn near materialized at my side (speak of the fucking devil), and regardless of how blazingly pissed I still was, the relief at seeing her was like some sort of fucking high. Not that I’d give in to it (pleading _tell me it’s over, it’s over right, I can stop with this shit and start shooting people again, hopefully some of my fucking customers_ ) so instead I just passed her the cigarette. She took a drag, handed it back, hands returning to the pockets of her perfectly-tailored suit jacket.

“It’s done then?” I asked, trying to keep my composure somewhere between indifference and annoyed. Jamie blinked, cocked her had at me. Had the fucking audacity to look confused.

“It’s been done for a good week and a half,” she said, voice a solid balance between amused and chiding, as if this information was perfectly reasonable. As if I hadn’t apparently spent the last week and some odd days playing dress-up for an undercover op that didn’t fucking exist. All at once, Jamie was grinning, entertained by my reaction, no doubt. The fucking bitch.

“So,” I started, took one breath, than another, started again. “So the last week and…”

“Three days,” Jamie filled in for me, though not before taking my cigarette back and inhaling another long drag of her own. I felt my eye twitch.

“The last week and _three days_ ,” I repeated, trying as best I could to keep my voice level. Unsuccessfully, I might add. “That was just what, then? Play acting? An opportunity for you to see what I would have been like as a fucking sales associate?”

“Good lord, no!” Jamie laughed, dropped the fag onto the cement and stubbed it out with the dangerously pointed heel of her stiletto. “I just assumed, after the mass system failure a week and a half ago, you’d have taken the hint and bowed out.”

A city-wide blackout, the store’s backup generators kicking in almost at once. I’d been on another smoke break, would have missed it entirely if it weren’t for the chaos it caused at the registers. Of-fucking-course.

“That was you,” I sighed. Jamie just shrugged.

“Crisis averted, the mole all set to be disemboweled, a job well done, I must say.”

“A job well fucking done ten days ago.” I muttered, petulant. But Jamie just continued to smirk.

“Not my problem if you can’t recognize a cease and desist when I give it to you.”

It’s no use arguing with her, really. And in all honesty, just knowing I had the go-ahead never to set foot in that fucking store again… Well, small victories.

“And who’s responsible for the disemboweling, then?” I asked, pulling the apron off and dropping it to the sidewalk, followed by my bowtie, nametag, headset. I was suddenly filled with the overwhelming urge to light it all on fire.

“Who do you think?” Jamie grinned, pushing away from the wall and towards the front of the store. “He’s all tied up and ready for you in the stock room. Figured you’d waited long enough.”

It was probably the closest thing I’d ever see to an actual apology.


	3. Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You see what I mean? Better and fucking better.

Finding myself blood splattered and elbow deep in a freshly tortured (freshly dead) victim isn’t exactly a position I’m unfamiliar with; Jamie may not get her own hands dirty, but there are certain deeds that still need doing to maintain her seat on the throne. It’s a position I took to rather easily, and (what probably should be) unnervingly so.

Finding myself blood splattered, elbow deep in a corpse, _and_ surrounding by nearly all of Scotland Yard, however, is something I’d never really expected. Jamie’s good at covering her tracks, alerting me to any possible tip-offs. There was no warning for this, nothing but the sound of approaching footsteps, a door blown open, the clatter of guns suddenly cocked and loaded. It was definitely a set up, an all out ambush, and I could do little more than let it happen. As much as I hate rolling over, I also know when it’s best not to risk a bullet to the head. Especially with such an important question still as of yet unanswered.

If I was suddenly being cuffed and dragged off to the Yard, then where the fuck was Jamie? Was she being held somewhere too? Was this the beginning of the dismantling of her empire? Was she being tortured somewhere, ripped apart piece by piece for information? 

Was she even still alive?

It would be worth letting them drag me into that concrete cell, strap me in for a long night of “interrogation” if only just to find out that much. Find out something. Anything.

But as expected, that was hardly their first priority.

One of three men (all wearing the same suit, all armed, all aggravatingly stoic; I’m no Jamie, but it wasn’t hard to tell they were MI-6) walked into my line of view. “Sebina Moran,” he addressed me.

He knew my real name. Not a good start.

I didn’t give him the benefit of a response, not that it mattered. I figured they weren’t looking for confirmation anyway; if they had Jamie, they already knew everything there was to know. No point in hiding from that.

“We’re here to discuss your intimate involvement with Jamie Moriarty.”

I couldn’t help myself.

“By intimate,” I said, leaning my head back against the chair, eyeing up the other suit to my right. “Do you mean professionally? Or… Unprofessionally?”

“Are you imply that you and Miss Moriarty-”

“Have fucked on top of and inside nearly every national landmark, including Tower of London?” I grinned. “You betcha.”

The crack of a fist against my cheekbone wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it still hurt like a bitch, throbbed something fierce. Still, I made it a point to spit the blood as close to the suits’ shoes as I could manage.

“I’m guessing you meant professionally then?” I shrugged. Or at least as close to shrugged as I could with my hands cuffed to the back of the chair. I managed to maintain my grin at least. “Well you boys are out of luck. I don’t know shit. I just worked for her. And occasionally offered her a bit of… stress relief.”

The second punch was damn near in the exact same spot, stars erupting behind my eyes, white hot flares of pain that took longer to dissipate this time.

“This attitude of yours isn’t helping, Miss Moran.”

“If your friend’s right hook is anything to go off of, it’s not exactly hurting much either,” I scoffed. And while it wasn’t entirely true (I was sure that last punch probably fractured my jaw) I’d had much, much worse.

And if Jamie was dead, all of this would be nothing compared to that anyway.

There was no way to tell how long the abuse went on, the questions lingering around the topic of Jamie and my knowledge of her network. For every question, I’d offer a sarcastic remark, a sassy retort, anything to keep them talking, keep them giving me as much of their own information as I could finagle. But it wasn’t until I was lying face down on the cement floor, contorted at an awkward angle from still being cuffed to the chair, that it finally paid off.

“You can end it right now, Moran. Put a stop to the pain, the torture,” said a voice by my ear. The same suit that had bruised my collarbone, probably broken my rib. “Just tell us where Moriarty is hiding.”

It was like a shot of morphine. A rush of endorphins, serotonin, whatever the fuck shot itself into my brain that translated to an all encompassing sensation of relief.

She was alive, hiding, safe. She wasn’t dead, wasn’t being tortured. No matter what happened now, she was alright. Everything was alright.

Apparently I started laughing after that. I don’t remember doing so, but I do remember one of the suits telling another to shut me up. Everything after that was a blur of pain interspersed with questions I had no desire (or ability) to answer anymore. Jamie was alive. That’s all that mattered. They could do whatever they wanted to me now.

And eventually, they must have realized that, because the last thing I remember before I blacked out was one of them telling the others to give up.

“She’s not going to talk.”

Which translated, in my mind, to, “Get rid of her.” Or more specifically, “Kill her.”

The next thing I knew, I was in hospital.

“About time you woke up,” a voice, more specifically Jamie’s voice (I’d recognize it even half dead), huffed right next to my ear. I tried to turn my head in its direction, blinked a couple of times to dissipate the rather alarming haze that was clouding my vision, my head.

I don’t know what I expected, maybe that she’d be a bit frazzled, concerned at least, but she looked the same. Still perfectly dressed, perfectly quaffed, perfectly at ease. Perfectly in control. Not in the least bit surprised by whatever state I must have been in. And if the painful breaths, the tender neck, the stabs of pain with every fucking movement were anything to go by, it was a pretty bad fucking state.

 _What happened?_ Was what I tried to say, but it wasn’t until I made to open my mouth, move my jaw, that I realized I was all buckled in, something strapped to my lips, crawling across my tongue and down my throat and suffocating me. Suffocating me.

I tired to jerk away from it, tried to rip it out of me when that didn’t work, but Jamie was suddenly there, hands on mine, holding me down, giving me a look that I have no will to fight against. The one she saves for when she knows a challenge is the only way to get me going. Or in some cases, get me to cease fire. 

The one that says, “Don’t be stupid. You’re better than that.”

As hard as it was, I calmed myself down, let the hospital regulated air force itself down my throat breath after breath.

“Good girl,” Jamie said, slowly letting go of my hands, easing herself back into the chair at the side of my bed. She knocked on the window behind her and two nurses came in without a word, barely even looked at me as one started to remove the tubing, the other checking the monitors at the other side of my bed. Once they were gone (and once I was done coughing up the psychosomatic remains of that fucking tube) I tried a word or two. Or nine.

“How the fuck was I kidnapped by MI6?” I croaked out. Aggravatingly, Jamie did little more than smile, all cool composure and infinite wisdom. If I hadn’t been fucking bed-ridden, I probably would have strangled her. Fantasized about it real hard though. 

Especially when she replied, “Poor evasion techniques, I’d wager.”

I could hear my heart monitor pick up a bit, sure she could hear it too. “You know what I fucking mean.”

“Fine, fine,” Jamie chuckled softly, leaned forward enough to reach the blanket and pull. Tucking me in. Like a fucking child. “It’s not as though they left me much choice, you know. I had to do something when I got word that your cover had been blown. I had to make sure they knew Sebina Moran was connected to me. That, when you refused to talk, as I knew you would, they’d have no choice but to dispose of you.” The look on her face was unreadable, a smile frozen in place that made no sense to me at all. “You understand, don’t you Tigerlily?”

And maybe it was the morphine, maybe it was the lingering ache all over my body (most likely it was the exhaustion mixed with how little I comprehend half of Jamie’s plans to begin with) but I didn’t understand shit. Which must have shown all over my face, because before I could reply, she sighed, placed a hand on my cheek in a way that should have been comforting but wasn’t.

“Sebina Moran is dead, darling. MI6 disposed of her body this morning.”

If my heart monitor was beeping in time to the William Tell Overture before, it was playing the Flight of the Fucking Bumblebee now. It wasn’t so much because of the “officially dead” thing (Jamie is a master of altering records, making certain documents disappear; I’d expected this ages ago… though not quite to this extent).

Really, it was because, “You were the one who tipped them off.”

Jamie rolled her eyes. “Oh calm down, princess.”

But I was too far gone to deal with that shit. “You had them ambush me and torture me and… and _kill me_? Though I guess that bit was all smoke and mirrors on your part then.”

“You know me,” Jamie leaned back, crossed her legs, looking slightly miffed. Clearly my reaction wasn’t what she’d hoped for. “I’ve got spies everywhere. Including MI6’s mortuary.”

“And all that time,” I looked away from her, latched my stare on the ceiling instead; I had to. “All that time I was worried that you… That you’d been…” I closed my eyes, ground my teeth, tried to will my heart to slow down if only so Jamie wouldn’t realize how fucking pissed off (how fucking hurt) I was. Stupid fucking monitor.

The silence stretched on long enough for me to calm down some, and then long enough for the tension to become a bit uncomfortable. Which is when I heard Jamie’s chair scrape just so across the linoleum floor. I kept my eyes closed, listened to the sound of her heels clicking, her clothes brushing against the side of my bed as she leaned in close.

“This was the only way.” She whispered, warm breath on the shell of my ear. “Hopefully when you get your head out of your ass you’ll realize that.”

And without another word, she pulled back, halfway out the door before I could even open my eyes again; I’ve always hated morphine.

She looked back at me before she left though, eyes strangely distant.

“I was always safe, Seb,” she said. “And now, so are you.”

She was gone before I had the chance to reply.


	4. That Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck her.

Her Final fucking Problem.


	5. Miss Her?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if I ever fucking could.

I couldn’t breathe.

Her face was plastered everywhere, on every screen, mouth unhinged like a cartoon snake. I was being swallowed up, eaten alive, digested until there was nothing left of me; not that there was much left to begin with. Jamie’s “death” had done a number on me, I’m only a little ashamed to admit. Though to find out it was all a ruse, and worse yet, a ruse I’d had absolutely no involvement in… Well.

I was pretty sure I was gonna throw up, right there in the middle of the fucking pub, not like anyone would have blinked; three o’clock and I was already two shots, six pints in. I’d been doing that a lot lately, blocking out what I could with alcohol and sex and fuck knows what else. But this? This was fucking unavoidable. This was Jamie’s ghost coming back from the dead just long enough to kill me. This was Jamie… actually coming back from the dead. And I had to find out in a pub, from the telly, like the rest of the fucking world, like I was just… Like I wasn’t- Fuck.

I don’t exactly remember emptying my clip into the television above the bar, but I do remember the smell of gunpowder, the unexpected explosion, just loud enough to rip me from my stunned paralysis and alert me to the equally stunned, soon to be panicked faces of the rest of the pub. I didn’t stay long enough to experience the transition, but I certainly heard it (screams, shouts for someone to call the police, fucking aggravating) the moment the pub was at my back.

I had to find her. I had to find her and punch her across the fucking face and kiss her probably and fuck her _definitely_ and just choke some reason into her until she understood what she’d done. Or died all over again. Whichever came first. The problem was finding her.

I’d exhausted every possibility in that first year, searching beyond where I thought she’d be and into ridiculous, even nonsensical locations. She couldn’t be dead, wouldn’t have done, not to me, not to _herself_. But it was like checking the icebox for your car keys; a deranged, highly unlikely sense of desperation, of hope. But you look anyway. And they’re not there. And you feel stupid for looking.

Knowing for a fact, this time, being completely 100% sure she was alive, is the only thing that pushed me forward. The only thing that got me looking in iceboxes again. Not that I had to resort to that, really. Not that I had to resort to much at all, actually, this time around.

As it turns out, she wasn’t exactly trying to hide from me, practically waiting for me in the first place I managed to come up with. It’s hardly much of a surprise; if she wants to be found, she will be. But that’s just it, isn’t it? After all that, after _two fucking years_ , how was I to know she still wanted to be found? How was I to know she still wanted to be found by me?

Sure, I sounded like a kicked puppy (felt like one too, as pathetic as it was) but I couldn’t deny the initial surprise. Couldn’t deny the relief when that nagging sense of doubt finally shut the fuck up. Because there she was, standing at the picture window in my flat (of-fucking-course) looking larger than fucking life and very much alive and smiling at me like she’s the cat the ate the fucking canary and very, _very_ much alive and-

I could have dropped to my knees in front of her right then and there, thought about it, wanted to on some twisted level. Hell, a tired and overwhelmingly relieved part of me just wanted to drag her to the bedroom, fuck the last two years away instead of dealing with the inevitable fallout.

Doesn’t mean I was any less angry, though.

I nearly shattered the glass beneath our weight, slamming myself into her full tackle, one hand on her throat. Even heard the crack of it splintering, but I was beyond stopping, beyond caring about anything other than the feel of her, the very real, very present weight of her beneath my hand, the smell of her, the heat of her breath on my face, the sound of her laughter echoing in my ears-

Wait.

I pulled back, just enough, still panting, still furious, and yes. She was laughing, full out, though a but choked off from the pressure of my hand around her neck. It made something complicated, conflicted, spike within me, made the edges of my vision a bit fuzzy. Because that sound… _God_ how I missed that sound. But how she could _possibly_ think that now was a good time for it?

I felt my hand tighten just so (barely even aware of making the decision to do so) and the sound cut off with a wheeze. Not that she’d lost any of that manic gleam in her eyes, that fucking smirk that knows exactly how to burrow itself beneath my skin, set my chest aflame.

No. Not now. More important matters to attend to. Like-

“You were dead,” I hissed, loosening my grip just enough for her to breathe. I could feel her throat jump beneath my fingers when she coughed; she was still grinning like a lunatic.

“Just so.” She croaked. “And yet, not quite.”

That haze at the corners of my eyes spiked red, a furious sort of desperation creeping up, because _she doesn’t understand, doesn’t realize, can’t see just how much, just how badly-_

“Not. Fucking. Quite.” I heard myself grit out on half second delay. Something in Jamie’s eyes shifted, something almost but not quite like recognition. But I pressed on, couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to. “You died. Shot yourself in the _fucking head_. And I wasn’t… I _believed_ …”

I let go of her completely, wrenched myself away and back, because touching her wasn’t helping. Being near her, seeing her, none of it was helping. It felt like going crazy, like she wasn’t really there. A hallucination, at long last, my mind giving up on itself. A life without Jamie is a life not worth living, after all.

“It was just two years, Sebina,” Jamie’s voice broke through my reverie, tugged me back to the present piece by shattering piece. I couldn’t help but scoff. Just two years. Right. When I finally managed to look back at her, though, she looked almost concerned. Or something close to it, brow furrowed in confusion. Disappointment. “Did you really lose faith in me so quickly?”

The urge to punch her magnified tenfold, though it was easily bested by the exhaustion, the need for this to be real, to be settled, to just have her back, have everything back the way it was, the way it had been. Not that it ever could be, not after all that. Not anymore. And yet, a part of me still yearned for it, more deeply than even logic could dissuade.

“Never,” I whispered. “Wanted to, though. Tried.” The words weren’t making as much sense as they should, but Jamie nodded regardless, took a step towards me. “Only made it that much fucking harder.”

“My darling Tigerlily,” Jamie cooed, reached a hand up to my cheek. It took all I had not to just give in, to lean into it and forget. Give myself up to her all over again. “I owe you a thousand apologies,” she whispered, pressed forward as that hand slid back to the nape of my neck, pulled me down. “I had no idea you’d be so affected.” 

Her lips against mine, like a perfect memory come back to life. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else ever would. She was back. She was here. She was alive.

“Yeah, okay,” Jamie broke away, voice shaky and rough, tinged with laughter. “Maybe I did.”

The growl that escaped me was definitely more rage than lust. But the lust was still there, still eager and fierce and demanding, so instead of throttling Jamie again, I chose to give into that instead.

“If you’d just fucking _told_ me,” I groaned, tangling my fingers in her hair and pulling, exposing her neck. I latched on, sucked hard, aiming to bruise, to mark, to damage her as much as she’d damaged me, if only just on the outside, just for a little while. I scraped my teeth over the sensitive skin. “I wouldn’t have to fuck some sense into you.” 

Jamie moaned, though even that sounded a tad amused. “Not your best argument, darling,” she chuckled breathily, dug her nails into my scalp hard enough to sting. Lust was definitely starting to win out over rage. Damn her.

“You’ll be rethinking that when I’ve got you spread out and panting for it, fucking begging me to let you come.”

Jamie’s eyes were wide, the manic gleam replaced by a dark, hungry arousal that only added fuel to my own. “And will you, Seb? Will you let me come?”

With a moan, I picked her up, carried her to my couch and unceremoniously dropped us both into the cushions. In the following breath, the moment before I lost myself to her all over again, I leaned in, lips at the shell of her ear. “I don’t know, Boss. You didn’t exactly let me come. Now did you.” Before I could convince myself what a horrible idea it was, I was ripping our clothes off, a frantic search for skin, for warmth. And all the while, Jamie’s moans were tinged with laughter.

It wasn’t until after, both of us panting and sated, anger momentarily forgotten, that she said it again. This time much less like a cartoon snake. This time, almost genuine, almost believable.

“So. Miss me?”

And fuck if I had. Too damn much.


	6. Um... Mandatory plus one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who the fuck even knows at this point? I mean, really.

I don’t fucking know. She bought me a really nice gun once, I guess?


End file.
